


before

by headscab



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, i didn't mean for this to come out sad, watever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-20 21:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14902790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headscab/pseuds/headscab
Summary: A request has Fred thinking about the past.





	before

**Author's Note:**

> idk if i'll continue this but i literaly have been thinking about fred and shaggy from the date of my birth ok. happy pride month

            Fred really didn’t mean to get involved.

 

            It was something about the way the girl had cried, probably.  Fred had no idea how she had found out what his address was, probably fucking _Whitepages_ or something like that, or how she knew that he used to solve mysteries, but she knocked on his front door like she was being chased.  When she begged Fred for his help, asked for kindness, he couldn’t exactly say _no._

            “Can I come in?” she had asked, eyes dripping and her lips shaking.  Her name was Emily, and as she stood in Fred’s kitchen in a sweater five times too big eating crackers out of a box, she spilled a secret. 

 

            “You’re being haunted?” Fred asked, skeptical when he shouldn’t have been.  The ghouls of his youth had been fake, nothing but a hoax led by people with everything to lose.  Seven years later, he was still in the town he had called home way-back-when.  He didn’t talk to the gang anymore, and as far as he knew, the Mystery Machine had been bought and repainted for a local business. 

 

            “Every day,” Emily replied.  She rubbed her cheek with her larger-than-life sweater.  “It started a few months ago.  I always thought ghosts were real, but my friends, they convinced me…”

 

            “To do what?”  Fred didn’t want to rush her.  She looked small, fragile.  How young was this girl, anyway? 

 

            Emily set the box of crackers down and sat on Fred’s small sofa.  His apartment felt stifling small, too pathetic for the rent that took up most of his paycheck.  Even if working in the mayor’s office paid, Fred couldn’t nearly pass this life off for one of luxury. 

 

            “To hold a session.  To talk to the other side.” 

 

            She was serious.  Her expression was stone, her resolve thick where it had been faltering moments before.  Her eyes were some muddy color, surrounded by thick rings of black that were smudged and half-running down her face. 

 

            “You mean talk to ghosts?” Fred asked, reaching up to run his fingers through his blond hair until he remembered that he cut it short, _too short,_ months previous.  His hair was just another part of him that had changed since his mystery-solving days.  “I have to be honest here, I’m not even sure they exist.  Why did you come here, anyway?”

 

            Emily blinked owlishly.  “You’re Fred Jones, right?  You solve mysteries.”

 

            “Used to,” Fred corrected, wondering why his throat suddenly felt raw.  It wasn’t like things had ended on bad terms.  Shaggy and Scooby, they ended up dropping out of high school like it was nothing.  Fred and the girls saw Shaggy working at the local gas station, still talked to him until he stopped responding.  Velma was the next to go, graduating early to get a jump start in some fancy school across the country. 

 

            Daphne, though.  Fred had never expected her to leave.  He knew, logically, that high school romances didn’t last forever.  Yet, when she told him her mom was moving to Italy, and taking her along, it felt like his heart was on fire.  Her letters had stopped more than three years ago.

 

            “Once a ghost-hunter, always a ghost-hunter,” Emily affirmed. 

 

            “It was never ghosts,” Fred snapped.  He instantly regretted it, picking up on the way Emily deflated and shied away.  “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to yell.”

 

            “That’s okay,” she said quietly.  “I just thought if anybody could help me, it would be you.” 

 

            As she got up and moved to the door, Fred sighed.  His fingers itched for something to make, something to distract him from what he knew was wrong.  He wanted her to walk out that door, wanted to _forget._   His past was his past, and he didn’t want to change that. 

 

            Her hand touched the knob.

 

            “Wait.”

 

            Looking back, hardly, eyes holding a slight hope, she listened as Fred asked, “Tell me everything.  From the beginning.”

 

\- - - - - - - -  

            It was really unbelievable. 

 

            A girl talks to ghosts through a Ouija board, one gets attached to her, and follows her everywhere.  Eventually, she’s being followed home, checking over her shoulder at every crosswalk.  The ghost is leaving her notes spelled out in pieces of grass, flower petals.  Innocent messages at first, then more sinister as time passes.  Then one morning, the girl wakes up with scratches on her back. 

 

            It’s not a story that Fred could believe, that Fred _wanted_ to believe.  But when she poured her heart out, looked at him sincerely for help, he couldn’t shake his head.  He, stupidly, scribbled down his phone number on the corner of a magazine, ripped it off, and handed it to her, sending her on her way with the promise that he’ll look into it.

 

            How could Fred do anything?  He had never seen a ghost, not a real one.  He couldn’t do anything to something that he couldn’t touch.  He was the guy that made the traps, the one that caught the bad guy in the end.  Fred wasn’t the brains, he wasn’t the brawn or the bait or Daphne’s beauty.  He was just _Fred._

 

            Fred toed on his sneakers and padded down the stairs outside of his apartment until he was on the street.  Somehow, time had passed fast enough for him to miss the darkening of the sky.  The street lamps were on and shining, reflecting his face in the oil spill on the asphalt.  He looked alone. 

 

            “How pathetic,” Fred muttered to himself, moving along.  How could he help someone if he couldn’t keep a stupid friend group together longer than high school? 

 

            Without paying any sort of attention to where he was going, Fred walked slowly.  The air was cool without being cold.  It felt nice against his face, against his bare arms.  He shrugged his hands into his jean pockets and went on with his shoulders down. 

 

            Cigarette’s littered the sidewalk.  Fred’s memory lingered on Shaggy holding one in between his fingers, coughing slightly but smiling all the same.  Velma hated that Shaggy smoked, always told him that he should look out for not only his health, but Scooby’s too.  The smoke made Scooby tired, lethargic.  That dog had to be dead by now, right?

 

            Scooby had been a good dog.  Shaggy’s best friend, for sure.  There was something about their relationship that a human couldn’t intrude upon.  Man’s best friend.  Fred wondered for the first time how Shaggy had felt when Scooby died.  Hell, was _Shaggy_ still alive?

 

            Velma had been closer to Shaggy than Fred.  She hinted to Fred how bad Shaggy felt sometimes, when he was really down.  Lightly, she had suggested that Shaggy was doing drugs, nothing hardcore, just to take the edge off.  She had sort-of implied that Fred should talk to him about that.  Fred had shrugged it off, back then.  Fred of the past didn’t stuff like that seriously, didn’t take Shaggy seriously.  He had only thought about the next trap he would make, the next mystery they would bag. 

 

            Daphne had been a priority, too.  Fred had always liked her.  He liked her face, liked her slim body and the way she moved like a dancer.  He liked how abashed she would get with open flirting, with the seed of the idea that she was more attractive than average.  He hadn’t been a sex-driven maniac like some of the guys in his grade, but he could admit now that he had thought about her that way.  Fred and Daphne.  Daphne and Fred.  Why had she stopped sending those letters, after all?

 

            A group of guys was sitting outside the gas station when Fred arrived.  They were laughing, holding brown paper that was a few years too old for them.  They were having fun.  Fred watched them for a minute, listening to them chatter about how terrible their science teacher was, how he gave pop quizzes for no reason.  The gas station light flickered. 

 

            Fred went inside. 

 

            The old man at the counter was watching the television in the corner, not paying attention to anything else. 

 

            Fred cleared his throat. 

 

            With a grunt, the man switched his eyes over to him.  He smiled loosely, displaying a chipped front tooth and wrinkles deep-set.  “What can I help you with?”

 

            “White Owls,” Fred said, the words slipping out and moving like water.  “The tropical ones.” 

 

            The man shambled to his feet and over to the packs of rolling paper.  He flicked one pack off the shelf, meeting Fred with his hand outstretched.  Fred fumbled with his wallet, plucking out his ID and a few dollars. 

 

            As the cashier looked over them, Fred asked, “I knew a guy that used to work here.  Name was Shaggy.”

 

            The old man hummed.  “Not familiar.”

 

            “Norville?” Fred tried.  “Norville Rogers?”

 

            Shaking his head, the cashier handed Fred the paper and his ID.  “Doesn’t ring a bell.” 

 

            Wondering if Shaggy had worked there after all, Fred accepted his items and left.  The gang of people hanging outside was gone, leaving behind just their brown bags to signify that they had been there at all. 

 

            Fred took the long route home.  He knew that it must be nearing midnight, with no cars passing by.  The moon was high up in the sky, covered partly by clouds.

 

The path he took was unfamiliar, but his feet knew it well.  He left the main road, ventured off into the worse-for-wear neighborhoods.  The street name was shrouded in darkness, but Fred could recite the house number by heart as he walked up the driveway.

 

            Shaggy’s house was the same, at least on the outside.  Still painted a light blue, still with all the curtains drawn and the front door sagging slightly.  Fred had walked up the path hundreds of times, had opened that door and walked in like it was his own home.  Now, he stood still at the foot of the steps.

 

            He wanted the front door to open.  He wanted Shaggy to come out, Scooby at his side, and Fred wanted to tell him about Emily, about a ghost that could be _real,_ and how he was scared of letting her down and proving to himself again that he was nothing but a failure.  He wanted the Mystery Machine to be behind him, with Velma sitting in the back waiting for Shaggy to hop in, and Daphne sitting in the passenger seat, watching Fred through the driver’s window.  Fred could almost smell the gasoline, feel the sticky heat of the summer where they had all the free time in the world, all the time in the world to be _kids._  

 

            The White Owls were crinkling in his hand, and Fred realized that he had clenched his fists so hard that his knuckles were aching.  He blinked slowly, smelling the wet grass and the faint odor of weed and nicotine.  The gasoline wasn’t filling his head, and there was nobody behind him calling for him to get back in the car. 

 

            Shaggy wasn’t in front of him. 

 

            Fred slowly released his fist.  He walked up the steps like he had back then, like he had before.  The door was in front of him, still the same but so different.  He raised his hand, ready to knock. 

 

            Fred dropped the White Owls on the step.  He dropped his hand back to his side.  Shoulders drooping slightly, Fred turned around.  He walked home in silence, his head full and heavy. 

 

            When Fred fell into his bed that night, dropping his pants off somewhere along the way, he inhaled deeply.  With a gradual realization, the weed-stink and nicotine was in his clothes, in the fibers.  Fred slowly raised his shirt to his nose, breathing in until the scent was all around him, encompassing him.  It wasn’t the Mystery Machine.  It wasn’t high school, and it wasn’t _before._ But it was something. 


End file.
